Mark Peters saw the flashing blue lights in his rearview mirror and stepped on the clutch to slow down his BMW. A glance at the speedometer showed the needle on the wrong side of 90. Jesus. I wasn't going that fast, was I?
It was late afternoon, one of those gorgeous autumn days where the sun was still warm, the breeze faint and cool, and the trees just turning colors. There was no one on the highway but him--he had the radio cranked up, the windows rolled down, his sunglasses on and the seat back, nowhere to go and all the time in the world to get there.
And now I'll be late.
Behind him, the police car wailed once. Even though he was alone on the road, Mark put on his turn signal, crossed the other two lanes, and slowed to a stop on the shoulder of the interstate. He'd never been stopped before, never.
First he checked his seat belt. Buckled. Thank God. Then he reached for his wallet, praying he had remembered it in his haste to get out of the house earlier. He had. As he fumbled for his license, he wondered if maybe it was too late to hope the cop might have stopped him for something silly, like a blown light or expired tags ... hell, just to chat, even.
Um, hello? The sign back there that read 95? That wasn't the speed limit, dickweed. He didn't pull you over because he likes your car. And where the hell is your registration, hmm?
Mark had no idea.
Leaning across the passenger seat, he popped open the glove compartment and began digging through McDonald's napkins and Wal-Mart oil change receipts and Taco Bell sporks, looking for something that might vaguely resemble a tiny registration card. He could've sworn he had stuck it in there when it came in the mail, all those months ago. He pushed his shoes off the seat onto the floor and wondered if it were illegal to drive barefoot. Did he have enough time to slip on his sandals before the cop showed up? And where the hell was his registration? It had to be in the glove compartment, right? Where else would he keep it?
"Fuck," he muttered, scooping out a handful of junk and tossing it onto the floor.
Someone tapped on his shoulder. Mark jumped and turned, already smiling the disarming grin he used when the shit was about to hit the fan and it was probably his fault. "Hey," he said, hoping he sounded nonchalant. "Just looking for my...."
The words dried in his throat as the police officer pushed his hat back, revealing light brown eyes the color of wet sand and a few strands of wispy red hair. Damn. Mark stared at the eyebrows that arched above those eyes like faint lines drawn above the tide line. At the full lips a shade of pink that should be illegal on a boy. At those eyes. Suddenly he forgot how to speak, what to say, and what was he looking for again? Where was he?
My God.
"Can you turn off your car please, sir?" the police officer asked.
Mark stared, his mouth slightly open, his mind unable to make his body perform the simplest command. The car. Off. Yes. Why?
What's he want me to do? Mark wasn't sure but he definitely wanted to find out.
"Sir?" the officer asked again. Above his badge was written Lt. W. V. Tench. "The car?"
This time he frowned a little, and the way his lower lip pooched out excited Mark. He wanted to catch that pout between his teeth, nibble on it, suckle it.
The car.
"Right." Mark took his foot off the clutch and the car leaped forward, throwing Lt. Tench back from the window. Smooth one, Peters, Mark thought, his ears heating with embarrassment as his car stalled. Just run him over while you're at it, why don't you?
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